Iona Winter

I am waiting.
Some say I have always had the patience of a saint.
I am pretty good at waiting (cue elevator music).

Waiting however, with my saint-like patience, is becoming tiresome. I’m starting to think that I’m far too understanding of other people (full stop). I don’t really want to make a fuss, or show that I’m becoming angry. There’s that avoidance again – the damn thing just crept in when I had my back turned.

I wonder what people would say if they knew my saint-like pose cracks at times. Underneath it there are pits of steam and fire. Visions of bubbling mud pools and sulphurous scented air spring to mind. Oh and volcanoes too.

I don’t think people like my underbelly. Yes some have witnessed it (cringe). Probably even less so after last week, when I cracked open said pits and made angry grrrr noises to myself (and those nearby). In a past life, I was a meek little mouse who waited and waited for prince charming to come in on his wonderful steed to save me from my wretched tower. That last bit is rubbish by the way. I haven’t been waiting for a handsome prince, or his steed!

Back to the waiting…

I’m actually waiting for feedback on ‘The Novel’ and the not knowing is doing my head in. I have been patient. I have been understanding. I am now frustrated and confused because it’s been weeks and weeks and weeks (you get the point I’m sure) and I’ve heard nothing.

How often should one follow up? I don’t know. How long should one wait? I don’t know. What’s reasonable? I don’t know. A recurring theme there.

I ask myself several times a day, Am I demanding? No. Am I anxious? Maybe. Am I a pushover? Yeah perhaps.

That gives me much to think about, ponder on, and use for further writing material I guess. There are several people in my life who suggest I use these things in my writing. Isn’t that what I’m doing here?

Time for chocolate me thinks. Better that than steaming sulphur breath!